


E. Nygma's Victory

by maestroveale



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nygmobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maestroveale/pseuds/maestroveale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward Nygma gets one over on the infamous Oswald Cobblepot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	E. Nygma's Victory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilentSinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/gifts).



The last gaggle of GCPD staff were leaving the lab, bright and cheerful, happy because it was the weekend. They were laughing and talking over one another in their excitement to leave work, wrapping themselves up in coats and scarves. They were talking about going out for a drink together that evening to celebrate cracking the most recent case.

As the last of them bustled out of the door and into the chilly autumn night, they flicked off the lights, plunging the lab and its one remaining inhabitant into darkness.

Edward Nygma called out to the closed door with cheery sarcasm, ‘don't mind me, guys, that's fine! You go on ahead!’

He got up from his desk to turn the lights back on. They'd forgotten he was still there again. It wasn't the first time and probably wouldn't be the last. They never even thought to seek him out to say goodbye and definitely hadn't thought to invite him to drinks. Occasionally, this sort of rejection would spark off a little bitterness in Edward. He hated knowing how little he was liked or even thought about by colleagues that he'd known and helped selflessly for years. Anyone would be bitter. 

But today Edward didn't mind. Today, nothing was going to spoil his good mood. Today, Edward had met Oswald Cobblepot. The infamous Penguin. 

To say that Edward had been following the Penguin's career with interest would be erring towards the understatement. Edward, in fact, followed it with an eagerness that could perhaps be said to border on obsessive. Cobblepot, although outwardly purporting to be an entrepreneur and nightclub owner, was widely known to be involved in the somewhat seamier underbelly of Gotham's economy. His mobster associations were a laughably open secret.

Edward's interest in Cobblepot's aforementioned crooked tendencies was a little harder to explain. He would have liked to have said that his interest in the Penguin was purely professional. Edward was a forensic scientist. The best, in fact. Cobblepot was a criminal who consistently and literally got away with murder. It would seem inevitable that Edward would find him compelling. But that wasn't really why he so keenly scanned each morning's issue of the Gotham Gazette, searching for a hint of Cobblepot's actions, a clue as to his methods and motivations. No. And, although he was impressed by the scale of Cobblepot's crimes, what he felt was not admiration either.

Edward laughed aloud in the empty lab as he considered the matter, enjoying the way the sound bounced back to him from the high ceiling. _Edward Nygma admire that little shark?_ The thought was risible. Still, he had very much hoped that they would meet in person one day. And today his wish had been granted.

The ugly truth of the matter was: he read about Cobblepot's crimes because he knew that he could do them better. The superiority Edward felt was liberating. Reading about Cobblepot's shoddy executions, with glaring obvious evidence left behind was, for Edward, the equivalent of a rich society woman reading about the inevitable decline of a celebrity that had become reliant on drugs, overcome by the pressures of fame, heading inexorably towards a nervous breakdown. It gripped him with something like a frenzy.

Edward's knowledge of the art of murder was, without question, unmatched. He had been refining this knowledge ever since he was a small child, noting the interesting range of effects that bleach had when poured into a mason jar filled in turn with different creatures - worms, spiders, a butterfly. Although Edward himself had never considered murdering a person ( _however tempting it may be with snakes such as Arnold Flass around_ ), he knew everything there was to know about committing that particular crime. 

He knew that murder had to be logical, had to be clean, had to be planned, had to be practised, honed, refined. It was obvious with his haphazard and sloppy methodology, that Cobblepot simply did not have the mental capacity required to be a truly great killer.

Why, earlier that day he could not even crack the simplest of riddles:

‘ _What I want, the poor have, the rich need and if you eat it you'll die_.’

‘ _Is this...are you asking me a riddle?_ ‘

Edward had grinned from ear to ear.

Cobblepot had stalled for time, a disappointingly pedestrian response when confronted with a riddle. A common response. Not something that Edward had expected from such a reputedly great man. It was abundantly clear to him that all that had gotten Cobblepot this far was luck.

Edward spent almost every day of his life being unfairly trodden under the feet of colleagues who could not possibly match him in intellect. They mocked him, goaded him, seduced the woman that he deserved ( _don't think about it_ ) and every day he failed to stand up for himself, to show that he was the better man simply because he lacked the confidence to speak out against those testosterone-fuelled idiots who bullied him. 

Yet with Cobblepot, he had succeeded. He had won. He had outwitted him and then, boosted by his victory, he had deliberately hit him where it hurt:

‘ _Did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?_ ‘

Edward laughed to himself once more. He had beaten Oswald Cobblepot, a man that struck terror into the hearts of every criminal mind in the city. He had never felt more alive. 

He could not stop thinking about him.

Edward slowly and methodically collected his belongings. He touched each piece of his analysis equipment lightly, almost reverentially, ensuring it was positioned correctly, just-so, ready for next time. He headed to the door.

As he stepped out onto the slick, rain-sluiced streets of Gotham City, Edward knew exactly what he was going to do. He was going to befriend the Penguin. Cobblepot badly needed his help if he was going to survive, that much was clear to him now. He needed someone to take control of the situation.

Pulling his coat-collar tight around his throat, Edward headed to Oswald's.

******

As he strode hurriedly through the cold night, Edward reminisced over his and Cobblepot's earlier meeting. He remembered the first thing that struck him when he saw the object of his interest from the top of the GCPD staircase was how tiny Cobblepot was, like a little baby bird with feathery hair, a sharp nose and big feet. He was a little baby bird trying to disguise how small he really was. He dressed in a sharp suit, walked with his chest puffed out, his jaw set, constantly defensive, constantly attempting to intimidate.

Edward smiled at the memory. How ridiculous that anyone should be scared of him, especially hardened gangsters. All Cobblepot was, was a little man, driven by his own irrational pride. That was all Oswald Cobblepot was. An unsupportable ego, a petty criminal so inflated with the vision of himself as the 'King of Gotham' that he thought himself untouchable. Edward let out a low giggle.

Due in some degree to the GCPD's inadequacies ( _but he wasn't going to think about them right now, was he?_ ), Cobblepot's crimes, though plentiful, were not well-documented. Edward idly wondered what it felt like to go uncredited for such achievements. Knowing Oswald - and he felt like he did - he bet it stung. His inherent pride would make it sting; Cobblepot would want everyone to know what he had achieved. No wonder he was so angry all the time.

And there it was, the neon umbrella sign. Edward had reached his destination.

******

As it turned out, the club's proprietor was not hard to find, even in a relatively busy nightclub. He was at the main bar, sneering at two thuggish characters who were clearly not there just to sample the alcoholic delicacies on offer. Cobblepot looked even more like a puffed up pigeon than he had earlier, his hair ruffled to the extreme, his steely eyes narrowed and spiteful.  
Edward watched from a distance, just too far away to be able to hear the words that Cobblepot was spitting into the faces of those two goons. However, it didn't take long for the men to get the message and soon they left the bar, almost barrelling Edward over in their hurry to leave the club. Oswald snapped his fingers for a drink.

Now was Edward's chance. He hesitated. Despite his knowledge that he was far more intelligent than Oswald could ever hope to be, there was something that made him a little unwilling to approach Cobblepot on his home turf, as it were. He wasn't scared, certainly not, but he didn't imagine that Cobblepot would be very pleased to see him. At least, not until Edward explained the kind of partnership he had in mind.

Fortunately, he was saved the effort of opening the conversation.

‘You again.’

Two words could not have been imbued with more venom had they been spat by a cobra. Edward almost flinched in surprise as he looked down at the man in front of him. Whilst he had been deliberating on the best method of approach, Oswald had clearly spotted him and approached him, materialising from the crowd without Edward even noticing. 

He radiated fury. ‘You're not welcome here, Nygma.’

‘How sweet of you to remember my name. I'm flattered.’

Oswald smiled without humour. ‘I'm serious. You're not welcome here. You have about five seconds to leave, before I peel off your face and mail it to your mother.’

‘That's no way to speak to a man who's here to offer you a deal.’

Oswald's eyes narrowed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I'm talking about me being able to give you something that you want.’

‘And what's that?’

‘No-one is born with it, everyone dies with it, people never stop wanting it yet to have even a little of it is a dangerous thing.’

‘Don't test me, Nygma.’

‘Knowledge. The answer is knowledge.’

Edward's face hurt from grinning. Oswald could never get one over on him; Edward far outstripped him in every way. And it felt good. 

‘Do you know what knowledge is, Oswald? Power.’

Oswald gave him a long, penetrating look. ‘Come with me. You have two minutes.’

******

Oswald led Edward through a sound-proofed door next to the bar and into the back corridor of the club. Oswald moved fast for someone with such a disfiguring limp and Edward had to scurry to keep up with him. At the far end of the corridor was Oswald's office. The door swung shut behind them.

‘Sit,’ Cobblepot commanded, sinking into the high-backed leather chair behind his huge, mahogany desk, propping his umbrella up against his bookcases.

‘No thanks. I'd rather stand.’

‘This had better be good, Nygma.’

‘Oh, it is,’ he said, his eyes gleaming. ‘I'm going to help you become a better killer.’

There was a beat of silence.

‘What?’

Oswald's hoarse voice was suddenly silken and dangerous. ‘What did you just say to me?’

‘I said that I'm going to help you become a better killer.’

‘Are you accusing me of something?’

‘You know exactly what I'm talking about, Oswald. Don't play dumb.’

Oswald slowly got to his feet. ‘You work for the GCPD. I looked you up and I know all about you. You know Jim Gordon. How stupid do you think I am?’

Edward felt his smile start to grow again. _Very stupid, indeed, little bird_. Oswald began to prowl round his desk, stalking towards him, slow and threatening.

‘Stop smiling like that.’

‘Smiling? I'm not smiling,’ said Edward, grinning even wider.

Oswald reached him, getting as close into Edward's face as was possible for someone so short. He smelled of whiskey and sweat. His pointed nostrils were white and flared with anger. ‘Are you laughing at me?’

‘I wouldn't dream of it. I'm here to help.’

‘To help?’

‘To help you be a better killer, I told you. You see, you're sloppy. Erratic. You're going to get caught and you're not going to be able to talk your way out of it. I can help. I have the brains. I know everything you need to know. You need me, Oswald. If you want to keep all this, then you need me.’

Oswald was silent, maintaining unblinking eye contact. Unreadable. Edward did not look away.

‘I don't need anyone.’

His breath was hot on Edward's mouth. Edward licked his lips.

‘You do. You're just a little bird with a little bird brain.’

Oswald lashed out. Or, at least, tried to lash out. Edward had been expecting the blow - _too, too predictable_ \- and grabbed Oswald's wrist mid-strike. He squeezed it hard and twisted it, wrenching it up Oswald's back into a wrist lock. Oswald let out an involuntary gasp and cry as his knees buckled, and the side of his head slammed down onto his desk with an almighty crash.  
Edward, pressed down on him with all his weight and let out a cackle. He had the little bird pinned and squirming face-down. 

‘You need me, Cobblepot,’ he said, through gritted teeth and shaky laughter. ‘You're nothing without my brains. Together we could be so great and you know it. We could rule Gotham.’  
‘Let go of me, you psychopath.’

Edward lifted Oswald by the back of shirt collar then slammed him into the desk again, this time smashing his nose. Blood started to spurt profusely into Oswald's mouth. The laughter kept bubbling up from deep within Edward's chest; he could barely hold it in. It was making his shoulders shake with the pressure. _This was just too hilarious. Too fantastic_.

‘Let me go, let me go.’

Blood bubbled from his mouth as he yelled. Oswald squirmed more and more violently, crying with desperation. Edward was having to really struggle to keep hold of him, even in an incapacitating wrist-lock. 

‘Tell me that we have a deal. Tell me that we can be partners,’ he demanded, giggling uncontrollably all the while.

‘Never,’ spat Oswald.

Edward slammed him hard into the desk again. ‘Tell me that you need me.’

He grabbed a handful of Oswald's fluffy hair, pulling his head back with some force. Oswald let out a wild howl of pain, veins standing out on his neck and forehead. However, before Edward could smash him onto the desk for a fourth time, Oswald cried out. ‘Okay, okay. I need you! Stop, please God, stop, you crazy son of a bitch!’

Edward hesitated, holding Oswald's broken face mere inches away from the bloody table-top. Oswald was panting, tears still streaming. 

‘I need you, Edward,’ he choked. 

And it was with that second, sincere repetition that Edward knew that he had won.

Victory. This was all he had ever wished for. More than he could have dreamed of. Yet somehow the laughter had all been knocked out of him. He fell silent. The air suddenly seemed very quiet and still apart from Oswald's ragged breathing. Slowly and carefully he lifted Oswald back onto his feet, released his wrist and turned him round to face him, gentle now. He was still pressing Oswald back against the desk but really, there was almost no need, no force required. The Penguin was limp in his hands, no longer struggling.

The dynamic between them had changed abruptly and profoundly. He knew that he must be staring at Cobblepot with a kind of open-mouthed wonder but he didn't seem to know how to stop gawping. Oswald's face was smeared and bloody, his eyes were wet and very very blue. There was no fear, there was no anger, not any more, just a raw fragility that was making Edward's heart beat very fast indeed. 

‘I need you,’ Oswald said quietly, simply, eyes fixed on Edward's. ‘Will you help me, Edward Nygma?’

‘Yes, I'll help you.’

Edward leaned down and kissed him. Oswald tasted of blood and salt and Edward drank in the flavour, kissing him with greed. His hands moved to Oswald's face, clumsily wiping the blood away with his thumbs. Oswald let out a little sigh into Edward's mouth, perhaps of pleasure, more likely of relief, and sank back to sit on the edge of the desk as though his legs could no longer support him. Edward continued to kiss him, stepping between Oswald's knees.

Oswald's arms, no longer limp, found their way round Edward's back and pulled him closer. Their kiss grew deeper, a little rougher and Edward pressed himself nearer, ensuring that Oswald felt his erection against his thigh as he thrust his tongue inside his mouth. His hands explored Oswald's matted hair as he moved his kisses downwards, biting at his neck, sucking and kissing his way down to his blood-stained collar, obsessed with the feel of him under his lips.

‘Take off your clothes,’ Edward commanded, somewhat hoarsely.

Oswald swiftly carried out the order as though he had only been waiting for the command. He shrugged off his jacket, pulled off his tie and began to unbutton his shirt. Edward returned to kissing Oswald's neck with such lust and urgency that he was leaving angry red marks with every ministration. He grabbed inexpertly at Oswald's cock through his trousers, tugging and rubbing with the palm of his hand. Oswald quivered beneath his lips, breathing rough and wanton.

Edward kissed downwards still, licking at Oswald's nipples, kissing roughly over his breastbone and down his pale stomach, nosing the faint smattering of fair hair that ran down below the waistband of Oswald's trousers, all the while toying with Oswald's erection, pressing and teasing through his pants.

‘Take them off,’ was his next order, swiftly obeyed. ‘And those.’ 

The underpants came off too. Edward eagerly took Oswald's cock in his hand and Oswald made a soundless, strangled cry in the back of his throat at the surprise of Edward's bare, hot hand gripping the head of his penis.

‘You and me, Oswald,’ Edward muttered into the Penguin's ear, voice cracking slightly as he pushed his erection more fiercely against Oswald's bare thigh. ‘You and me together could be great. We're going to be legendary.’ 

With that he kissed Oswald deeply on the mouth again, his desperation wild and obvious as he stroked Oswald's penis, foreign yet so familiar in his hand. He bit Oswald roughly on his bottom lip, drawing a whimper that threatened to drive Edward right over the edge then and there. He bit him again, slightly harder this time and Oswald responded with another whimpered moan which resolved itself into something that sounded something very much like 'fuck me'. Although it was hard to tell when Edward was still kissing him so hard that he could not possibly draw the breath necessary to speak.

But Edward did not need telling twice. He fumbled with his belt for a moment before finally succeeding in freeing his own cock.

‘Turn around.’

Oswald did so. Edward bent him forwards roughly, pushing Oswald's face to the table-top once more in a queer parallel to their earlier confrontation. He ran his hands over the pale smoothness of Oswald's exposed arse, his fingers rough and bruising. Oh God, he had had no idea that he had even wanted this. With some haste he hawked some saliva into his hand and slid a wet finger between Oswald's cheeks. Oswald cried out and backed almost involuntarily onto Edward's hand, forcing him deeper. Edward inserted another finger, fucking Oswald with one hand, touching himself with the other, stroking himself until he could bear the feel of it and the sound of Oswald's desperate moans no longer.

He removed his fingers, spat hastily into his hand once again and proceeded to lubricate his cock, hard and throbbing. He bent over his willing victim and slowly and carefully pushed himself inside the hot tightness of Oswald's arse. It was almost too intense as he started to move, his breathing coming out in jagged gasps. 

‘Oh God, Edward,’ moaned Oswald, his fingers white as he gripped the desk. ‘Yes.’

As his thrusts found a rhythm, Edward reached for Oswald's cock, pumping his hand in time with his penetration. Oswald writhed beneath him and in almost no time at all he came, hard, swearing through gritted teeth as he spilled himself all over Edward's hand and his office carpet, his cock pulsing in his lover’s grasp. Edward felt the laughter of his madness welling up inside him again as he removed his hand from Oswald's cock. He pushed Oswald's head hard into the desk once more and pushed and thrust harder and faster, rough and possessive, unable to hold back a cackle of complete wild ecstasy.

He felt his own climax building, one hand still crushing Oswald's face into the desk and one hand gripping Oswald's hip so hard that there would be finger-marks left for days. Crying Oswald's name he thrust one final time before pulling out and coming hard and prolifically all over Oswald's back and buttocks. He had wanted to watch, had wanted to see what it would be like for his semen to splatter across the prostrate body of Gotham's most-feared villain. And it had looked fantastic.

After a moment of heavy-breathing stillness, he finally released Oswald from his prone position and zipped himself back into his trousers with shaking hands. Oswald stood on unsteady legs, wiping the mess off himself with his discarded shirt. They studied each other in quiet contemplation for a moment as Edward caught his breath. Even naked and smeared in caked blood and semen, there was a certain pride to Cobblepot. Maybe they were more equal than Nygma had originally thought.

‘So, it's deal then?’ Nygma said, smirking very slightly. ‘You and me?’

The Penguin nodded once.


End file.
